Sunday
by Anneka Neko
Summary: ONESHOT. It was Sunday, and Lord Coward was kneeling before his Lord. Blackwood/Coward SLASH, hints of Coward/Standish preSLASH.


Authoress' Notes:

You know, sometimes I really have to work for a good idea, and sometimes it just hits me in a burst of euphoric inspiration. This case would be the latter, and I gotta tell you, it really is the best feeling you can get in life. It's like a creative mental orgasm, only better.

It should be noted that, if you want to fully understand the events I'm referencing in this piece, you should have read my pieces "Five Times Lord Coward Screamed", "Blood" (a prereq of sorts for "Five Times") and "Power". Ideally, you should just be reading my B/C (and Holmes/C) pieces in the order I publish them.

Disclaimer: If I owned it, the gay would be _way_ more obvious.

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**Sunday**

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It was Sunday, and Lord Coward was in the fifth seat of the third pew of the church, kneeling before his Lord above. He was laid open, bare, without a place to hide, and his sins were set out before the Almighty for judgment. He bowed his head as he felt his Saviour's love fill him from on high, and frowned, acknowledging and repenting of his many sins.

It was Monday, and Lord Coward was in his office, waiting nervously to begin his meeting with the new American ambassador, one James Standish. Technically, this should have been the Foreign Secretary's job, but as Standish was going to be living here in London quite a bit (and as the Foreign Secretary's fondness for alcohol so often outpaced his stamina), it fell to Coward to welcome him officially to the city. He straightened his coat fussily, swallowing hard. He'd been in office a little under eight months, now, and this was his most important task yet. He needed to make a good impression, after all. Hearing the knock on the large, impressive oak doors, Coward closed his eyes briefly, inhaling slowly. He opened his eyes again. "Enter."

It was Tuesday, and Lord Coward was nearly asleep, bored almost to tears by Lord Caulfield's rambling speech on the need for a new and better-paved road in one of the busier areas of London-- and it was a coincidence, of course, that Caulfield's London residence just _happened_ to sit off of the road in question. Coward stifled a yawn and, at the feeling of eyes on him, glanced down the row of Lords to find Lord Blackwood looking at him steadily. Coward swallowed, raising an eyebrow questioningly, but Blackwood just smiled, and Coward looked away with a shiver, redoubling his efforts to pay attention to the babbling man across the way.

It was Wednesday, and Lord Coward was eating dinner at the Café Royal with Ambassador Standish, having found he got along with the man rather well. They were chatting politely of this and that, and oh, wasn't this soup delicious, when a shadow fell across the table, and Coward looked up to see Lord Blackwood there, smiling darkly. He swallowed hastily and introduced the two men, inviting Blackwood to join them. The man declined politely, explaining he'd actually just finished his dinner, but Coward saw the angry look the man shot at Standish as he left, and was worried.

It was Thursday, and Lord Coward was clutching a short, abrupt letter in his hand, one addressed from Lord Blackwood, that promised him harshly, privately, that if he continued to fraternize with men like Standish, he would regret it. He was fuming in indignation at the _gall_ the man had, telling him with whom he could or could not associate, but he couldn't help but shudder as he remembered the last time he'd stood up to Blackwood.

It was Friday, and Lord Coward was being pushed violently into the stone wall, hot lips and slick tongue plunging desperately into his mouth as Lord Blackwood's hands roamed freely and eagerly across his body. He tried to resist, he really did, but the man was just so powerful, so _right _in everything he did, and this was nothing like what had happened that stormy night a month before, because Coward's skin was tingling, and Blackwood's touch was honeyed perfection, and Coward was struck with the gut-wrenching thought that he was hardly _worthy_ of such exotic pleasures, because _God_ if Blackwood hit that spot again, he was pretty sure he'd see the hereafter _now_, and he knew it was a blasphemous thought, but he couldn't help himself. It felt like blasphemy _not_ to sing the praises of this dark, sensual angel, and he screamed wordlessly to the heavens as his body all but melted into Blackwood's grip, silently surrendering that which he still claimed in voice-- his will.

It was Saturday, and Lord Coward was trembling as he lay in his bed, wracked with guilt, terror and confusion over his own submission to such unnatural, evil sins. Before, when he had been... _violated_, and he felt his throat begin the ache at the very memory, he had comforted himself with the thought that at least it had not been _his_ decision to sin in so depraved a manner. Now, though, he struggled to reconcile the heavenly, exquisite pleasure of his body with the plaguing guilt and torment of his mind. He knew he had reached a crossroads in his life, and he turned the question over and over in his mind as the night wore on. Which power was he to submit himself to, and could he live with himself once he'd made his decision? Coward didn't sleep that night.

It was Sunday, and Lord Coward was on the hard stone floor of his own office, kneeling before his Lord here on earth. His knees ached and his back was strained, but he was wholly focused on the sublime pleasure and glowing honor of serving his newly affirmed Lord so completely. He shifted slightly on the floor, trying to bring feeling back into his numbed and tingling legs, and groaned around his Lord as he felt the friction the movement brought. As Blackwood's head tipped back, mouth opened in a near-silent moan of wanton pleasure, Coward flushed, feeling honored beyond words and blessed, _so_ blessed. Gone were the guilt and confusion of the night before. Now all he felt was the intoxicating decadence of sin and lust, and as his Lord spilled into his mouth, Coward swallowed eagerly, thrilled that his Lord considered him a worthy vessel. Blackwood fisted a hand in the front of Coward's shirt and pulled him sharply upwards, and now Coward was groaning as his Lord kissed him harshly, teeth biting savagely at his lips as strong, elegant hands pulled painfully at his hopelessly unkempt hair. Blackwood turned to leave without a word, and Coward sank back to his knees, aroused to the point of pain and basking in the warmth left by his Lord's presence. He was once again laid open, bare, but he realized now that this was as it was meant to be, and he would have it no other way.

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Anyone ever seen "Clue"? If not, go watch it this instant. When, on Wednesday, Coward and Standish are chatting about how "oh, wasn't this soup delicious", I was thinking of the dinner scene, when Mrs. Peacock is rambling about the soup. 8D I love that movie.

Remember how I said I felt no problem with giving Standish a first name, as I doubted I'd ever focus on him? Yeesh, eating my words on _that_ one. He's gaining importance in the story my brain's working out here, but at least James sounds nice, so I don't think I need to change that one.

Also, Lord Caulfield? Completely BSed. If I ever need an old, stodgy Lord to ramble for a while, I'll probably use him again.

Please review!


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